Unspoken
by Conviction
Summary: DH Spoilers. George and Angelina try to find some sort of comfort in the other in the midst of Ron's wedding reception.


The smile died on George's lips as he lowered his champagne from his lips and caught sight of Angelina slipping away from the clapping and cheering crowd through one of the doors. Pausing to stare at the bubbling drink in his hand, he contemplated staying and letting her stew things over by herself, but thought better of it and set his fluted glass on a nearby table. He slipped out unseen—everyone was too distracted by the toasts and the flurry of celebration to notice his quick exit.

It was a quieting relief to be out of the midst of all the exuberance, and his shoulders relaxed as he stepped out into the empty hall. Odd, he hadn't noticed they were tense.

A turn led to a set of glass doors, and he guessed by the silence in the halls around him that she had gone that way. He went out quietly, emerging out into the crisp fall day. The cool air washed over him, bearing away the remnants of the party smile from his face and replacing it with a somber calm.

They were at some fancy muggle golf club for the wedding reception of his youngest brother and his new wife, Hermione. They'd finally managed to fit in a ceremony amidst the chaos of their schedules, both of them busy working hard trying to rebuild and restructure after the war. Ron had rushed in after Hermione into a slew of philanthropic schemes, and they were a dynamic duo for the good of the wizarding world. Hermione would kick Ron into action (when he wasn't helping George out with the joke shop, that is), and once he had got going he was a force to be reckoned with. Ron, in his turn, was one of the few that could drag Hermione down back to earth from her breakneck pace and make her take a break. They really were made for each other.

So here they were, with both of their families and friends in the midst of the picturesque English countryside outside of London on a cold October day, celebrating. George sighed. He spotted a small bunch of brightly colored trees off to his right and instinctively struck out for it. She always had loved bright colors.

He was rewarded by the sight of Angelina, sitting on a concrete bench in red dress robes with a cape thrown around her shoulders. She glanced up and managed a weak smile for him as he took a seat beside her, but it was only half-hearted and it slipped away into the grey weather. They sat staring at the thick clouds hung overhead, rolling across the hills.

"Hullo," George said after a prolonged silence, his voice hoarse.

"Hey," she returned listlessly. "You make a toast?" It wasn't much of a conversation, but they needed to say something. He wished he hadn't chased after her.

"Yeah, a short one. Formal speeches aren't my talent." He folded his hands in his lap and studied them intently. He hadn't had the heart to dish out the stirring and dramatic farewell to bachelorhood he and Fred would have cooked up for the occasion. That was the whole problem. He was so used to doing things in pairs, in making allowances for two people, in having someone to bounce all of his ideas and musings off of.

He was learning how to—he really had no choice but to, in any case. It had been how long now? Months, years. Too long, not long enough. It hurt, but it felt dull with time, and that hurt in a different way just as painfully. He was afraid one day he would forget what it was like to do everything with his twin, to be in each others lives and faces and heads all day every day. Some days it sounded like a blessed relief.

Angelina looked at him, eyes dark and somber, and understood everything he left unsaid.

Shit, it'd been a long time since anybody had looked at him like that. A lump choked his throat, and he hastily looked away. The weather was bloody depressing. Wasn't there some cosmic rule against drab weather on the day of a wedding?

But then again, it should be against the laws of the universe to be this sad and reflective during a wedding. Something about seeing the whole family together, Fleur pregnant as could be, brought what was missing into sharp focus. Fred would have been jumping out of his skin with excitement. They would have cooked up some prank with the children present, would have eaten half the cake by themselves, would have ended up with mom yelling until she was red in the face…

He drew in a deep breath to quell the sharp spike of grief.

Cold fingers interlaced with his own, callused from years of hard Quidditch play. They held hands, the simple touch more comforting then any words they could have come up with. Conversation would have been awkward, just speech trying futilely to fill up the void between them when this so silently spanned the gap. It was easier, less complicated.

They both lost track of the time as they sat there, sinking into their own thoughts, drifting through memories.

"He wanted this," George said finally, sadly. "A family. He was talking about it...before…" He trailed off. He knew it would hurt her to hear it, but he needed to say it, to feel the loss of it with the only other person who would really understand, in the midst of all this celebration.

Angelina's head fell, her eyes closing as her breath hitched painfully.

"I'm sorry," George offered, untangling his hand and wrapping an arm around her shaking shoulders.

"Dammit, I still miss him so much sometimes," she sniffled, scrubbing at her eyes harshly.

"I know," he mumbled.

"I thought I could come, that it would be okay. It's been so long…" She sighed, the burning tears spilling out down her cheeks. "But seeing your family together, all happy and big and loud but missing him, seeing you, it just… brought everything back like it was yesterday."

How can it still hurt this bad when he's been gone this long?

The silent question hung between them.

You're supposed to move on. Everybody looks at you like "what's the matter, it's been months already. Have fun, experience life." But the reality is, when the motion of life stops moving in a constant whirl over the surface, numbing everything, and all the muck that's been lurking down at the bottom starts to creep back up to the surface, it still fucking hurts.

And it doesn't seem like that's ever something that can just go away.

Yes, Fred would want them to be happy.

But Fred's the one that went and died, now isn't he?

Angelina said nothing more, simply buried her face in the crook of his neck. Her hot sobs broke against his skin, and she clung to him, fists balling desperately in the thick folds of his robes. He patted her back, swallowing uncomfortably around the thick lump lodged in his throat.

It was a long time before she pulled away, embarrassment heating her cheeks. "I'm sorry. It's just… I don't have anyone else…to understand…" Her speech was broken into by hiccupping, shaky breaths.

George turned his head away, biting his lip hard to stem his own tears. When he looked back, Angelina was gazing at him intently, liquid trails sliding down her dark cheeks, dripping off her chin. "What?" he muttered uncomfortably.

She leaned forward, testing the waters, and he readjusted his hold on her but didn't let go. Their breaths mingled, caught between them, and their minds both raced at a million miles per hour with a thousand unanswered questions and fears before going completely, blissfully, blank as they closed that last distance between them. Arms tangled, cold fingers sank into soft hair, chapped lips brushed against each other, seeking a comfort, any kind of solace.

He could feel her shaking as she pressed herself harder against him, trying to deepen the kiss, drag something more out of him. The tang of salt from crying was bitter on her lips. He put the brakes on, grasping her by the shoulders and pulling her away as gently as he could. "Angelina," he said firmly, and her big eyes shot open with blatant fear and a new whelm of tears.

"Angie, I'm not Fred," he said, glancing down at the ground beside them.

She smiled, mournfully, and once more scooted closer, turning his head toward her and pressing a soft kiss against his mouth. "I know," she whispered, resting her head back against his shoulder.

He brought his arms around her, drawing her closer and smelling the sweet scent of her perfume calming down his frazzled thoughts. And they understood everything without saying a word.

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Damn, I still can't believe Fred is dead... After this one shot though, I'm seriously tempted to write a George/Angelina fic, though... Or I could just wheedle myself into denial of the demise of our beloved prankster... 


End file.
